


Dirty

by musicforswimming



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-21
Updated: 2003-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforswimming/pseuds/musicforswimming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One filthy human deserves another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty

He buries his hands in her hair as he moves within her. The dirty blonde strands are tangled, knotted, matted.

Eowyn's nails are rough. They must be dirty as well, sense tells Aragorn, and that he does not mind. It is even fitting.

It is more fitting than having Arwen touch him, he knows, and he is certain that Elrond would agree -- one filthy human deserves another -- but what may be more fitting is not what he wants, and so it is not better.

Eowyn pants, grunts. The shield-maiden is tight around him. He grips her skin, not clawing as she is at him, but holding firmly to her.

His sword, he leaned against the wall, would not allow it to fall even for this -- especially for this.

They are both quiet, and the ghosts of shame gather thick around them, only waiting for them to finish to come crowding in and devour each of them, alone and as a pair, and so Aragorn will give them something to wait for. He pushes Eowyn harder against the wall, and she pushes back against him, and he pushes back against her as though to push her through it. So much of his strength is focused on this pushing that it takes all of his concentration and balance and being to continue what ought to be a simple, instinctual impetus.

It must be hard for her to breathe, but Eowyn is managing, with deep, jerking, shuddering breaths.

And then there is a dry cool bright, and Aragorn can only grip Eowyn enduringly through it. He cannot breathe and does not know how long it lasts as he empties himself into her.

The ghosts of shame begin to strike then, and Eowyn lowers her eyes. Aragorn stares at her for a moment, uncertain what tales his face might tell if she happened to look at him, and then pulls away from her.

They do not look at each other as they straighten themselves, and they take their separate paths -- he for the warriors and she for the caves -- and their footsteps echo, strangely similar, against the heavy stone walls.

She is his last human, he knows, and he is her first man of Gondor, and perhaps now they are both worthy of something finer.


End file.
